All You Get Is Pain
by EveningInHornersCorners
Summary: He was guilt-ridden. It was his fault alone that they'd lost the gig. He, the most unneeded member of the group. Now he wanted to take drastic measures.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: I want to dedicate this story to a few authors.**_

_**I asked some authors for ideas on this. So, all of you, thanks. I don't want to give any of you all the credit because you all inspired what this turned out to be; I actually didn't use any of your ideas directly, just what they pretty much all had in common.**_

_**There are is one author who has gone above and beyond who I'd like to thank personally.**_

_**MonkeeVeggieGirl, because, through the Monkees forum, you convinced me not to give up on them. Thank you. I'll still always carry a little guilt with me, but thank you for helping me realize that I don't have to abandon them completely.**_

The Monkees trudged up to the pad. They didn't have to speak. Their nasty glares in Davy's direction said more than any words could. If looks could kill, he wouldn't have had to pay for his cremation.

It had all started at one of the weekly gigs they'd booked at a dance hall owned by a Mr. Howard Powell. A Mr. Howard Powell who happened to have a beautiful daughter named Lucretia. She had been flirting with Davy for quite a while, and, naturally taken in by her, he returned her affections.

But Mr. Powell would have nothing of it. Davy was from the wrong side of town, according to him, and he was by no means discreet about it. That had gotten Davy angry. Really angry. More angry that he could bottle up without exploding. He didn't have that Manchester accent for nothing!

So he hit Mr. Powell. Hard. He broke the fellow's nose, in fact, but he didn't care. He'd wrestled the older man to the ground, the other Monkees failing to restrain him and Lucretia watching in horror. And to top it off, Mr. Powell fired them from their gig.

The other Monkees hadn't been pleased, not at all, especially when they got the hospital bill. All Mike had said was, "Davy. I thought we could trust you." Those words stung. He felt like he'd been hit in the stomach by a truck. It felt worse than the bruises Mr. Powell's fists had left.

Now, as they entered the pad, he tasted blood. He ran up the spiral staircase so as to avoid his band mates' faces. He threw himself down on his bed.

_That's all I am, really. Just a face. No musical talent. The others could sing my parts just as easily. That's all I am. Just…Just…a face. _Blood mingling with tears, he laid his head on the pillow and cried himself to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

When Davy woke up sometime later, it was already dark. He heard Peter snoring lightly on the other bed. Looking down at his pillow, the percussionist saw a dark stain and was frightened for a moment until he remembered what has transpired. It was only blood. He rolled over, and it was then that he realized how hard Mr. Powell had really hit him. It hurt terribly to move.

Thoughts from the previous day haunted him. _Just a face. Just a face. Just a face._ Of course he knew, deep down, that it was true. Horribly true. The tambourine and maracas weren't really all that essential on any one of their songs. Micky and Mike sounded much better singing. Really he wasn't of any value to the group at all. He was just the cute little English boy who was always getting them into trouble. At nineteen, he was at least a year younger than the rest of them.

And the naïveté and foolhardiness that came with his youth were the entire reason they'd lost the gig and ended up with that giant hospital bill.

_After yesterday, they probably don't want me, any road. _

Davy knew it would hurt. He knew it would be hard to get by.

But he had to leave the group.


	3. Chapter 3

When Davy awoke for the second time, it was around ten o'clock in the morning. He was grateful that Peter hadn't awakened him; the four of them had been planning to go job hunting that day. He figured they just probably hadn't wanted him to go along because he'd no doubt find some girl connected with any gig they got and they'd manage to lose it.

But he decided that he wouldn't think about that now. He needed to plan how he was going to leave the group. He could, of course, just tell them that he was going and they wouldn't care in the slightest. But somehow, he didn't want them to know that he was leaving; he didn't want to hear the inevitable "good riddance" they'd all likely say. No, if he could just slip out quietly… Maybe he could fake being sick on the night of a gig. After all, it wasn't as though they _needed _the tambourine or maracas. Why should he just be living off of the other three and not contribute anything?

_That's it! I shouldn't be just the dependant trouble-maker! I'll head off on my own next time they've got a gig. I'll make it alone since they don't want me…_

After a quick shower and changing his clothes, he walked downstairs, made himself a cup of tea and looked at the wanted ads that the others had left lying on the table. One advertisement caught his eye:

Wanted: Roommate to Split Rent With

If interested, contact Blair.

1670 S. Orange Road

Below was a phone number, which Davy copied down rapidly. After scanning the rest of the ads and finding nothing else more rewarding, he went to the phone and dialed the number. The phone rang several times before the other line was picked up.

"Hello?" a husky voice sounded.

"Hi. I'm Davy Jones, and I read your ad in the newspaper."

"Oh. You're interested in splitting the rent with me, eh?"

"Yes."

"Well now, maybe we can make a deal. Why don't you just come over to the address in the ad, and I'll show you around."

"Okay. Groovy." He hung up the phone, grabbed his jacket, and was out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

"I can't believe nobody wants a four man act!" Micky exclaimed as they walked up to the pad.

"It's all gone to trios, I guess." Peter shrugged.

"It probably still would have been more effective if we'd had Davy along. The cute little twerp." Mike commented fondly as he knocked on the door. Nobody answered.

"The little rascal's probably still asleep."

"How does he do it? He goes to bed at five at night, and then sleeps 'til noon?"

"Well, he had sort of an exhausting day yesterday." Mike pointed out, pulling out his key and unlocking the door.

"Davy! We're home!" Micky called. Nobody responded.

"Peter, run up and see if he's awake, would you?" Mike asked. Peter ran up the staircase.

"Maybe our reputation as gig-provider hitters has spread." Micky laughed nervously.

"Yeah. Maybe." Mike said with somewhat disconcerting brevity.

"Mike, do you think we were maybe a little harsh on him yesterday?"

"What do you mean _we_? If I recall correctly it was you who did most of the yelling."

"Me? The most tolerant of us all?" Micky put a dramatic edge on his voice.

Both of them were silent for a few minutes.

"What taking Pete so long?" Micky wondered aloud.

At that moment the blonde came speeding down the staircase, leaping over the last two steps and landing squarely on his feet. His face had a look of desperation about it.

"Pete? Is Davy okay?" Mike demanded urgently.

"How should I know? He's…he's…" Peter's lip started trembling before he could finish the sentence. His last words were lost in a sea of wails. Micky and Mike looked at each other in alarm, and then darted up the stairs.

But they did not find what they had expected to see. Instead, they were met with something else.

Davy was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

It took Davy a little while to find South Orange Street, and it was quarter to noon by the time he got there.

1670 was a quaint little house, with a porch swing and doorbell, two luxuries the pad had never possessed. He was immediately confident that this was the right place for him. But he didn't have to wonder why Blair wanted to split the rent. This couldn't be cheap.

Oh well. He'd brought his savings with him. And of course he could always try to get a stable job. With a band that was hard to do, but now, maybe, he could just shine as the person he really was, not just a chick magnet.

_This will be home. Home. I've never really been at home since I left England. The guys and I had grand times together, but the home is where the heart is. And this will be the place._

He rang the doorbell. He heard some heavy steps, and then the door opened to reveal a large man who was at least six foot seven and probably more than three hundred pounds. His cheek had a long scar on it, and his brown eyes were beady. His hair was covered by a gray cap. The percussionist felt like he'd seen him before. But he wasn't sure where.

"Who're you?" he asked gruffly.

"Davy Jones. I called about splitting the rent with Blair. Are you he?"

"Oh, yes. That's me. C'mon in." He stepped aside so Davy could enter the house.

"You haven't changed at all." Blair said.

"What?"

"I mean…_it _hasn't changed at all since I first started renting it."

"Oh." Davy still had the feeling that he knew this man from somewhere.

"Well, why don't we start in the garage?"

Blair led the way to the back of the house

"Here it is." The heavyset man said as they reached the top of the stairs. He opened a door and led the other boy inside.

It was a dismal room, with no windows and plain white walls where the plaster was falling off. There was, however, a very handsome blue Ford. There was a door in it, which Davy assumed was a storage closet or something.

"Come and look in the closet." Blair urged, practically dragging him over. He opened the door.

There was hardly anything inside the closet. All Davy saw were a bandana, a knife, and a coil of rope.

Suddenly, Blair pushed him to the ground. He held up the knife.

"If you treasure your life, boy, then hold still. I have the weapon, and besides, I'm a lot bigger than you."

First he gagged Davy's mouth with the bandana, and then cut a sizable piece of rope that he tied around the boy's mouth for good measure. Next, he roughly chopped some more pieces of rope and used them to bind his arms and legs. By the time he was done, Davy felt almost paralyzed.

"There." Blair sighed with satisfaction. Then he let loose a wicked smile which Davy knew would haunt his dreams.

"In exactly one hour, I will start the car in here. With the garage door closed. Then, I will leave, with my gas mask, and you will be left in here to die. It is my mission to get all of _you_. I got your parents, now I'm getting you. And I'll get your grandfather and sister one of these days, too." Blair laughed maniacally.

And all at once Davy knew where he recognized the man from. This was Chuck Holly, the man who had killed his parents when he was fifteen years old. He had always hated their family. Grandfather knew why, but he'd never told him or Beatrice, his younger sister.

Davy then realized how foolhardy it had been to leave the others.

_Guys, please find me! I know this is what I deserve but please, give me a second chance!_

**_A/N: I think I said in the second chapter that Davy was eighteen in this. He's actually nineteen. Sorry._**


	6. Chapter 6

The shock that had enveloped the three Monkees when they discovered that Davy had disappeared didn't last long. It was quickly replaced by panic.

"We've got to find him!" Micky screeched.

"Now Mick, calm down." Mike commanded, though he felt far from calm himself. He put an arm around Peter, who was crying to no end. "His stuff's still here. He can't have gone too far."

"But…where…how?" Peter whimpered.

Mike went to sit down on the sofa. It always helped him think. He looked at the coffee table and saw part of the newspaper. He picked it up and a piece of paper fluttered down from it. He snatched it up. It had a phone number on it. Nothing important. Probably just some girl. He scanned the pages of the paper; the same wanted ads that they'd read that morning. He was about to put it down when he saw something that had been circled with a pen.

Wanted: Roommate to Split Rent With

If interested, contact Blair.

1670 S. Orange Road

And below it was the same phone number as on the piece of paper.

"Guys, I think I know where he went. To the Monkeemobile!"


	7. Chapter 7

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Davy didn't know how long it had been since Blair-er-Chuck, had announced what his fate would be. But each second made him regret everything a little bit more. He knew the guys wouldn't care that this was happening to him; maybe they were even in league with Chuck, come to think of it. But there was something inside him that hoped that they would come and rescue him, that maybe they still cared a little bit about him.

But he knew, deep down, that it wasn't very probable.

_Of course this is what I deserve. I shouldn't have left, even if the guys don't care a whit about me. I got myself into this; I can't expect them to get me out._

Would the guys even care enough to tell Grandfather and Beatrice that he had died if they themselves ever found out? They probably wouldn't even attend his funeral… If he had one.

He wished for the millionth time that he hadn't left. But, maybe it had been for the better.

_I'm just a girl-crazy idiot. What value do I have? _


	8. Chapter 8

The three remaining Monkees, with the help of a gas station attendant, had managed to find South Orange Street, but it was six to one by the time they got there. They found the right address quickly. Mike rang the bell. No one answered.

"They're probably out." Micky shrugged.

"I'm not gonna buy it." Mike responded stubbornly. He saw an open window and said, "We'll climb through." So they did just that. And they knew what direction to head once inside because of the maniacal laughing they heard.

The source of the horrid sound, they discovered, was in the garage. A portly man was sitting in a blue Ford.

"Only a minute now." He cackled.

That was when Mike saw Davy, bound and gagged, lying on the ground behind the car, struggling.

"Davy!" he ran to his diminutive friend and untied the rope and gag on his mouth. "Are you okay? Gosh, man you don't know how much you worried us…"

"Mike, he's gonna start the car!" Davy screeched.

In a split second, Micky and Peter threw open the car door and were on the man, tackling him. Peter managed to tear the key out of his hand while Micky knocked the daylights out of him. Mike and Peter watched in awe as the man fell back against the seat, unconscious. Then Mike turned back to Davy and untied the ropes that bound his hands and feet.

"Did he do anything else to you? If he did…" Mike trailed off.

"No." The English boy felt a little winded after the hectic events of the day, but otherwise he was fine.

"Tiny, you don't know how much you scared us." Mike exclaimed. "Why did you run away to this place?"

"I…I thought you guys didn't want me and…"

"Why wouldn't we want you?"

"It…it was all my fault that we lost that gig yesterday, and since I'm, you know, always getting into trouble. Besides, I'm younger. And I'm unnecessary, so I figured…"

"You're not unnecessary!" Peter protested.

"Not by a long shot!" Micky chimed in.

"But…"

"So you ran away because you thought you were an unnecessary part of the band and we didn't want you because you're younger?" Mike looked Davy in the eye.

"I guess."

"You know that's one of the dumbest things you've ever done?" The Texan said fondly.

"I know. But this just proves my point about getting into trouble. Maybe it would have been better if he'd gotten me…"

"NO!" the other three yelped.

"Who was that guy, anyway?" Micky asked. Davy's face drained of all color.

"Davy? Are you okay?"

"He was the man who killed my parents. He hates our family for some reason. So he wants to kill us all." The English boy replied in a dazed voice.

"And I still intend to." The four of them swirled around.

And there was the man, holding a gun.


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N: So, yeah, my first Chapter Nine can be summed up in one word: FAILURE. Hopefully this one will be better. I'm still going to ask: is this lame? **_

_**On that note, am I abusing colons?**_

Mike hadn't seen this guy in action for very long, but he was relatively sure that he could depend on one thing: he was crazy prepared. He'd had a hard enough time untying the ropes he'd bound Davy with to know that. This Blair fellow was obviously expecting worst case scenario situations to happen.

So, it was unsafe to assume the gun was unloaded.

It would have been equally perilous to hope it would misfire.

_How am I going to get us out of this one?_

Mike instinctively stepped in front of Davy. No matter what happened to the rest of them, he couldn't let this man succeed and get his younger friend. He just wouldn't let it happen.

_What am I going to do?_ His mind screamed. He'd seen people in situations like this millions of times in the movies, but it was so much easier, because then it was all scripted out, and no matter how implausible it would have been in real life, it _could_ happen in the movies. There were no limits. And if you frequented the kind of films Mike did, nobody could die, no matter how awful the situation.

But here, in reality, things were a lot harder.

Davy stepped up. "Why don't you just go ahead and shoot me? Why wait so long?"

"Davy, don't!" Peter screamed.

"Are you crazy?" Mike demanded, trying to pull the English boy back behind him. His efforts were useless. Davy stood fast.

"Gladly." The man replied simply. He cocked the gun and took his aim.

"No!" Micky screamed. He rushed up to the blue Ford and threw the door open, knocking the man off balance just as he shot. The bullet went flying, hitting the light fixture, which teetered uncertainly, and then just barely scathing Davy's left ear.

"Your friends are quite troublesome, I must admit." Blair commented mildly.

Davy turned to Mike and mouthed the words, "Get out of here!" but Mike just shook his head.

Davy knew what he was doing was suicide, but he couldn't risk the others getting hurt on his account. Here they were, trying to save him again, risking their lives, something they never would have otherwise needed to do. Death was the only thing he deserved after what he put them through. Why couldn't they just take a hint and get out while they had a chance?

He stepped up a little bit further, hoping this would put the others at less of a risk. Unfortunately, they stepped up too.

"Guys," he said to them without turning around. "This is what I deserve. Don't try to fight it. Goodbye." He didn't want them to see the tears he felt stinging his eyes that threatened to spill over. He missed them already, and for a minute he wanted to run back into their open arms and just get out of here. But he knew that he couldn't.

_Everyone has a test for coming of age. This is mine._

"I never would have thought you'd be so cooperative." Blair marveled, moving away from the car so Micky couldn't pull the same trick on him. "Your parents certainly weren't." The gun cocked once again.

The other Monkees, however, definitely weren't cooperative. The sound of the gun cocking was sickening to them. They knew they had to do something. _Anything._

"Sir, you know he's only nineteen. Couldn't you wait until he's older?"Mike pleaded.

"Why should I? I think it would be a thrill to get him at this age. I'd be even more thrilled to get his sister. She's only sixteen."

Davy's older brother instincts kicked in immediately. "No! Not Bea!" he screamed.

"Isn't he amusing?" Blair smiled wryly. "But, back to the business at hand." He held out the gun.

Before Davy could stop them the other three were on him, wrestling him to the ground. Blair fired two shots in quick succession, which didn't seem to be aimed at anything in particular.

But after the second shot was fired, the three Monkees heard the shattering of glass, then a scream from Davy.

The lights had gone out.


	10. Chapter 10

A door slammed, and they assumed that Blair must have escaped, but the Monkees were too numb to go after him.

"What happened?" Peter asked. Even though the others couldn't see it, his eyes were wide with fear.

"Davy, are you okay?" Mike called. No response.

"Davy? Tiny, talk to me! Guys, do either of you have a flashlight?" the Texan demanded urgently.

"No…yow!" Peter cried.

"Pete! What's wrong?" Micky said fearfully.

"I think I rammed into the car."

"Hey, maybe there's a flashlight in the glove compartment!" Mike exclaimed.

"Yeah. If we can find the glove compartment." Micky commented hopelessly.

"C'mon fellows. It can't be _that_ hard to find."

And, to a certain extent, he was right. Micky walked right into the side with the door he'd hit Blair with, which was still open. After sprawling out on the seat for a second, he felt around and found the glove compartment. Upon opening it, he in fact _did _find a flashlight.

"Okay, guys. I found one. Or at least, it feels like one. Yeah, it's a flashlight." Micky confirmed as he tested it out and discovered that it shed a good deal of light.

"Davy!" Peter called. Still no response.

"Micky Dolenz, get out here!" Mike snapped. He normally wouldn't have been so harsh, but he was worried about Davy, especially after all he'd been through that day.

Micky slid nimbly out of the car, holding the flashlight.

"Hey! Not in m eyes!" Mike growled.

"Sorry, Mike." He turned the flashlight towards the ground. And that was when they saw what had transpired.

The light fixture, along with a sizable portion of the ceiling, had come off. Shattered glass was everywhere.

And in the middle of it all was Davy, unconscious, blood trickling down his face like tears.

It suddenly occurred to Mike that that must have been why Blair had fired those last two bullets. Davy had been standing directly under the lights, now that he thought about it. He'd known he couldn't shoot Davy while he was being tackled, but he could knock down the fixture and some of the ceiling with it. When that first bullet had hit it, he had of course realized that it wasn't on too tightly and since Davy was under it, he could hit him with it without shooting him. This confirmed Mike's suspicions that Blair was craftier than he seemed at first.

_I'm such an idiot. Why didn't I realize it before?_

"What do you think happened?" Micky asked nervously, the flashlight beginning to quiver in his hand.

"Do you remember when Blair fired those last two bullets while we were tackling him?"

"Yes, but…"

"He realized he couldn't hit Davy, but he was standing right under the lights. So he used those two bullets to knock them off the ceiling."

They heard a groan and some of the glass stirred.

"DAVY!" the three of them cried in unison.

"What…huh…who…"

"Take it easy, Tiny." Mike ordered, dropping to his knees. The others followed suit.

"W…why are you still…here? I told you to…get…get out." The English boy stuttered.

"Davy, for the millionth time _we aren't going to abandon you_!" Micky almost screamed.

"Mick, shush!" Mike hissed. He turned back to Davy. "Do you think you can stand?"

"Yeah. I think." The percussionist responded weakly, his words becoming more coherent. He managed to pull himself into a sitting position, and then with some help from Mike stood up on wobbly legs.

"Where does it hurt?" Peter asked with concern in his voice.

"My face mostly. And my hands…" He looked fearfully at his hands, and, as he had suspected, they were bloody. He shivered a little bit. It reminded him of the blood he'd seen on his pillow the previous night.

"C'mon, let's get out of here." Micky exclaimed. He shined the flashlight around and located the door. He felt the doorknob. Locked.

"Oh, for the love of fudge!" he hissed. "Pete, have you still got that key to Blair's car? Maybe we could ram the door with it."

"Let me check." The blonde dug around his pockets. "No, sorry. It must have fallen out when we were fighting Blair."

"Guys, I'm so sorry…" Davy mumbled, starting to fall backwards. Mike and Peter just barely managed to catch him before he hit the glass covered floor.

"Guys, we have bigger problems than getting out of here." Mike pointed out, gesturing to Davy's unconscious figure.

"But we need to report that guy to the police!" Micky argued fiercely. "Pete, come help me with the garage door!"

Peter did as he was ordered and went to assist Micky. Davy started to come to.

"I'm…I'm sorry." He murmured.

"Davy, what have you got to be sorry about?" Mike asked, not exactly surprised that the Brit was apologizing yet _again_.

"This is all my fault. I made us lose the gig, and then I ran away to this place. You didn't have to come after me you know. If you hadn't, you'd be better off as a band, and I'd be better off altogether."

"Davy, I don't want to hear that nonsense. There's no way that we'd just let you go like that. If he'd gotten you before we got here, we'd never forgive ourselves. You're not inferior because you're younger. You're a good percussionist and an excellent singer. Besides that you're a wonderful friend."

"You're just saying that."

"No, Davy. I mean it."

"Hey, guys, we got the garage door up!" Micky called.

"That's our queue. C'mon. Let's get out of here."


	11. Chapter 11

"Are you _sure _this was the same man who murdered Harold and Anna Jones?" the police officer asked skeptically. "That was a pretty big case. We even heard about it here."

After managing to escape Blair's garage, they had made it to the police station and were now all sitting in front of a seemingly callous officer, Micky, Peter, and Mike trying to support Davy, who was still quite shaky and has gone white except for the dried blood on his face.

"S…S…Sir, those were my p…p…parents. I…I saw the man who killed them. He's…He's the same m…m…man."

"Can you provide proof of this?"

"Sir, my s…sister and I… we were eyewitnesses to our parent's m…m…murder. That night changed our l…l…lives. And I remember what he looked like. That was the same m…man." Davy didn't want his friends to see that he was fighting tears, much less the officer. It had been a long time ago. The wound had almost healed. But now it was already opened up again and infected.

"But you can't provide any proof?"

"Sir…"

"Officer, please," Mike intervened. "He's a little shaken."

The policeman just shook his head. "That isn't our concern. I'm sorry, but we can't investigate something on a mere hunch. For all I know this kid fell off his bike and that's how he got the blood and everything. But, without proof, I can't do anything. I'm sorry." His voice reflected the opposite sentiment.

Any other time, Davy would have lashed out at being called a "kid". But it didn't really matter to him anymore. Nothing did. Not after everything that had happened…

Mike looked at Davy. He appeared shattered, at best. Tears glistened in his eyes. The Texan decided it would be better for all of them if they just got out of there. And the sooner the better.

"Sorry for disturbing you, sir. C'mon Tiny. Let's get you home."


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/N: Now THIS is**_**_ lame_.**

Upon arriving home the other fellows had insisted that Davy take a shower and go straight to bed. He was really too shocked to protest and almost grateful for the command. It was a relief to get the blood off his face, which, when he looked in the mirror, he realized was still completely colorless.

They had also insisted that Peter move into Mike and Micky's room so that Davy could just rest without distraction.

Now, here it was, two o'clock in the morning, and Davy still hadn't been able to fall asleep. After the others had gone to bed, he'd snuck out and found some things that looked interesting to read, but soon he just cast them aside. He couldn't concentrate on reading. He was too weighed down by all the thoughts running through his head. Everything he'd been through, all the realizations he'd made, they were almost, well, _painful_.

Pain wasn't something Davy had experienced much of. The first fifteen years of his life had been very happy. Then his parents had died, and he'd be thrown into a blizzard of grief, a blizzard he'd never wanted to see again, even after he'd managed to find his way out of it. In any case, he was a strong person who had always managed to make friends very easily, and they were there to support him.

No, he didn't see pain often, but when he did, it hit him hard. Very hard.

Remorse and grief already plagued him. He knew that, especially after this last incident, and even if they wouldn't admit it, the others wouldn't want him. And them pretty much stopping him from doing what he knew was best for him didn't help. He knew they were trying to be kind, to do what they thought was best for him, but _he_ knew that they'd still be better off without him.

True, he _wanted_ to stay with the group. They'd had so many good times together, and he loved playing the tambourine and maracas. Most of all, they were his friends. At the very least their actions that afternoon had proved that to him. No one but friends would go into a garage that was about to be flooded with carbon monoxide, tackle the guy, then risk getting shot and tackle the guy again.

He'd been trying to save them from him troubling them that afternoon, but instead he'd ended up troubling them even more.

And Davy knew that was never good.

He drifted off to sleep, playing "(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Stone" in his head without the maracas and deciding it sounded just fine.

Little did he know what the next day would hold.


	13. Chapter 13

_**A/N: Thank you to my sister, the budding poet.**_

Davy woke up with a start. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep. The clock read 10:10.

_This is getting to be a bad habit of mine. _He thought as he stumbled out of bed, scattering the books he'd attempted to read last night.

A feeling of familiarity swept over him as he changed into his favorite jeans and a blue shirt and then trudged down the stairs and made himself a cup of tea. He saw a note on the table.

_Davy,_

_We're going out job hunting. We should be back by five. Don't try anything._

_Micky, Peter, and Mike_

Davy crumpled it up, wincing at the line "don't try anything". He took a sip of his tea and scanned the room for the newspaper. It occurred to him that they must have tried to limit his scope of options by removing it from the premises.

He also soon discovered that, somehow, they had also managed to mess with the doors so he couldn't get out. He decided he wasn't even going to try the windows.

"It's because I'm short, isn't it?" he muttered.

"No. Not at all." a sinister voice from behind him crowed.

###

"Where to now Pete?" Micky inquired, pawing the steering wheel impatiently.

"Umm… Farrington Avenue."

"No way." Micky declared bluntly. "That crosses with South Orange Street. I wouldn't go back _there_ if my life depended on it."

"I agree with you on that one Mick. Oh darn." Mike exclaimed.

"What did you forget?" Micky asked.

"The map. A lot of these places are clear over in Jewell City. We don't know our way around there as well as we know Malibu."

"Yeah, that's right, isn't it?" Micky responded thoughtfully. "I guess we'd better go back to the pad then."

###

Davy swiveled around on the double and found himself face to face with Blair. He couldn't speak. How had _he_ gotten in here?

"I suppose you're wondering how I got in here." The heavyset man twirled a kitchen knife carelessly. "It was really quite simple. I hid away in the back of your car and they were all fussing over you so much that it was easy to slip in without anyone noticing me. It was rather comical to see your friends clucking like mother hens, Jones. I overheard them talking about going job hunting, but not wanting to wake you. So after they left, I tampered with the locks so no one can get out. Except me, of course. If your roommates had been wise, they would have left someone here with you. But alas, they didn't. Now we need to finish what we started yesterday." He held up the knife. The sharp point made Davy almost nauseous. Just as Blair was about to bring it down on his forehead, the English boy darted out of the way. The knife tore through the air.

"You were so compliant yesterday. Such a shame." Blair raised the knife once more. Davy was off. He flew into the kitchen, where he was able to snatch a long knife. Unfortunately, Blair was right on his heels. Memories of a dual he had previously fought flooded over him. He could almost feel the food collapsing under his feet as metal met metal once again.

_I lost my last dual. But I won't lose this one. I can't lose this one. I haven't got the others to cover for me._

Blair had him neatly pinned up against the refrigerator when Davy got an idea. He threw open the door and tossed the leftover cream of fortune cookie soup at the heavier man, then made a dash for the stairs. He heard Blair padding heavily behind him.

Davy had no time to spare once he was upstairs. It was only then that he realized that he'd abandoned the phone on the first floor, so he would be unable to call the police. He was cornered. Blair could get to him at any moment.

His eyes quickly shifted to the window that was closest to him. He ran towards it and managed to wrench it open; apparently Blair hadn't gotten up here as far as tampering with the locks.

_I don't have a choice. _He told himself as he started to climb out.

###

Micky parked the Monkeemobile. "Who has the key?" he asked briskly.

"Me." Peter volunteered.

"Groovy. Okay, do you know where the map is, Mike?"

"Yeah, I…" the Texan's words were marred by a gasp.

"Mike what…Oh my gosh!" Micky screamed as he took in the same sight as Mike.

"Guys…Oh no!" Peter screeched. The three of them were out of the car in a fraction of a second and running towards the pad.

"Davy, don't do it!"

"It's not worth it!"

"Reconsider!"

"Huh?" the Brit called down to them.

"Davy, even when the going gets tough, it's all worth it in the end!" Mike called frantically.

"Don't jump!" Peter cried.

"Guys, I'm not…" Davy turned his head and let out a small scream. "I need your help!" he yelled.

Mike's panic over the possibility of Davy possibly committing suicide was replaced by panic over what was up there that had made his younger friend cry out.

"Davy, what's wrong?"

"I can't explain right now. You've got to call the police and tell them that Chuck Holly is at this address…hurry!"

"Chuck Holly?"

"Blair…aah!" Whatever else Davy might have said was cut off by his screech.

"Davy? Davy! Guys, we've got to go for the police!" Mike cried. And with that, the three of them darted back to the Monkeemobile.


	14. Chapter 14

There was no denying that Chuck Holly was a bad man. But he certainly was not a stupid man. He had heard what the others had said about going for the police, and he knew that he had to take action quickly. Davy, especially when he had him by the ankles as he did, was powerless against him. With the others were gone, it was the perfect opportunity to move out. Where to, he wasn't sure. The house on South Orange Street would be one of the places they'd look first, so he couldn't go back there as he had originally planned. He didn't really know where he would go.

But he had to go somewhere.

###

"But Officer…" Mike protested.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Nosepicker …"

"Nesmith."

"But break-ins are secondary. Do you know how booked we'd be if we investigated every single little break-in?"

"But this was Chuck Holly!"

"Sure it was. I'm sure one of you has a connection with him."

"No, our friend."

"Ah. The son of Harold and Anna Jones, I suppose?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact he is."

"C'mon kids. Your prank has gone far enough. Move out."

"But sir…"

"No buts. I appreciate you all trying to cheer up our drab days at the station, but we've had our fill, thanks."

Thus defeated, the three Monkees walked out of the place feeling worse than ever, as if they had somehow let Davy down.


	15. Chapter 15

Davy was utterly terrified. After what had happened in the garage the previous afternoon, he'd thought he would be able to handle anything that fate threw at him. Here he was, bound and gagged in Blair's distinctive style, just like yesterday. It wouldn't have seemed as bad as all that.

Except if you infused the fact that this time he was in a sack over Blair's shoulder and headed for some unknown location.

Davy knew that there was no hope that the others would find him _this _time. He'd already gotten a lucky break yesterday, one he hadn't been grateful for. He certainly couldn't expect _another_ one.

_The police probably won't even be able to catch Blair. At least I tried… _

###

"What now, guys?" Micky asked quietly as they pulled out of the police station parking lot.

"Back to the pad, I guess." Mike said slowly. He could tell that he wasn't the only one feeling pretty lousy about what had happened with the police.

They were all silent until Peter spoke up, uncharacteristic anger in his voice.

"I can't believe they wouldn't even _investigate_ it! They just assumed we were a bunch of kids who didn't know what we were talking about!"

"Just like the first time, when we went to report what he tried to do to Davy." Micky chimed in, stepping harder on the gas pedal.

"C'mon guys. We did our best. Let's just hope that we can help Davy." Mike soothed.

They were quiet the rest of the way home.

###

Davy jerked awake, fully expecting to see the inside of the bag that Blair had been toting him in. But he was surprised to find himself tied to a bed in a relatively well-lit room.

"Well, hello Jones. Fancy meeting you here." A familiar voice sounded.

_I might have known it would be him. _He thought to himself.

"You know, Jones, it's getting to be a bad habit of mine to tell you my plots, but this is my best one yet. And besides, you'll be helping me."

"Never!"

"Oh you will…" Chuck smiled wryly. "Here's the deal. You will write a note telling your friends that I'm taking you to my lair on South Orange Street. Then you tell them that I'm going to drown you in the bath tub and claim it was an accident. I'll put the note somewhere they can't miss it. They'll be led on a wild goose chase, because I've set up some traps for them there. Meanwhile, you will be here, at 1821 Farrington Avenue, where I will drug you after you write the note. At that point you'll have half an hour until it becomes fatal."

"I won't write the note!" Davy screamed wildly.

"Oh yes you will." The heavyset man growled. "If you don't, I pick your friends off one by one. Then your sister will be next."

Davy's eyes grew wide.

_No! I couldn't let him do that to Bea! Or the others! No! I have to!_

"I'll do it! Just don't harm them!"

"I thought so. I'll untie your arms and get you a paper and pen. Then I'm going out for a bit. Anything you want before I go?" Chuck offered with sudden benevolence.

It was then that Davy got an idea.

"A toothpick. And a glass of milk."

"Certainly." Blair left the room for a moment and came back with the requested items. Then he did as promised and untied Davy's arms. He dropped a pen and few sheets of paper down on his knees as the short boy sat up.

"But I'm warning you, don't try anything. My cohorts are waiting by the doors. If you try to get out, they'll catch you and report you. If you get reported, your fate will be much, much worse." The man grinned crookedly and left the room.

Davy set to work immediately. He wrote the message that Chuck had demanded:

_Guys,_

_Blair's taking me to S. Orange St. He's gonna drown me in a bathtub and claim it was an accident. Help!_

_Davy_

He tried his best to make the note look like it was written hurriedly. Hopefully Chuck would approve.

Then he reached for the toothpick. He dipped it in the milk and carefully wrote in the top right hand corner:

_I'm at 1821 Farrington Avenue._

He drank the rest of the milk, then dropped the toothpick beside the glass and sat back, quite satisfied with his work.

_It's a one in a million chance, but…_


	16. Chapter 16

Blair reentered the room where he had left Davy and found him with the note, a used toothpick, and an empty glass of milk, just as he had expected to. He snatched up the note and scanned it hurriedly, then nodded his approval.

"Very good, Jones. Angus!"

"Yeah, boss?" A burly man with short black hair came through the same door that Blair himself had entered from.

"Shut up. I don't want anyone to hear us. Retie Jones here. I need to go plant this note." Leaving his victim to Angus, the most trustworthy henchman he'd ever had, he grabbed his coat and walked out the door, the note still in hand.

North Beechwood wasn't too much of a walk from Farrington, so it didn't take him very long to get there. Now the trick was trying to get the note somewhere they couldn't miss…

###

Micky had shut off the car some time ago, but none of them had really wanted to get out, so none of them had.

The silence was as heavy as a London pea soup fog and there was tenseness in the air that nobody dared to break.

That is, except for an earsplitting crash.

###

Blair cursed under his breath at the clumsy mistake he'd made. Having luckily left the door unlocked when he'd kidnapped Davy, there had been absolutely no problem getting in and planting the note on the ground right by the coat closet. But, unluckily, when he was turning around, he slipped.

Blair was an extremely heavy man, and the closet door was light and thin. He crashed right through it, leaving a significant hole and many splinters. The contents were also somewhat crushed.

He got to his feet and made sure that the note was still in plain sight. Then he ran out of the open front door, hoping no one had seen him.

###

"What…what was that?" Peter asked fearfully a moment after hearing the crash.

"Maybe Blair and Davy got in a fight…Oh my gosh!" Mike threw open the door and broke into a run towards the house, Peter and Micky close behind. The Texan saw a dark, rotund figure running in the opposite direction, but he paid it no mind. He was too worried about what might have happened to Davy.

The door was wide open. The three Monkees ran through it in neat succession, as if it had been choreographed, with Peter slamming the door closed. All of them were shocked by the scene before them.

There had obviously been a struggle; the closet door had been smashed clear through. There was a folded sheet of paper lying by the wreckage. Mike snapped it up before the other two even noticed it.

But before he could read it, the lights started flickering, and then went out.

"We must not have paid the bill." Micky commented matter-of-factly.

"Oh well. We can read it outside." Mike stated. He felt for the doorknob, and then tried to turn it.

"Pete, I think you slammed the door a little too hard. It's stuck."

"Don't we have some candles?" Micky asked, starting to feel around in the dark. It eerily reminded him of when the lights had gone out in Blair's garage.

"Here's something… I…I think it's a candle." Peter said. "Anyone got a match?"

"Me." Mike volunteered.

"With our luck it'll probably be dynamite." Micky muttered to himself.

However, upon lighting the match, they discovered that it was indeed a candle, so they lit it and took the note over to a table.

"Here, let me read it." Peter said, wanting to make himself useful. He unfolded the note. "Guys, Blair's …" he began.

"Not so close to the flame, Pete… Wait, what's that?" Mike demanded as he saw words appearing in the upper right hand corner.

_I'm at 1821 Farrington Avenue._

Peter yanked the paper away from the flame. Micky slapped himself on the forehead.

"Of course! They do it all the time in spy movies! Davy must have written it with milk or something. It's invisible when it dries and it stays that way until it's exposed to a heat source."

"But what about the words in ink?" Peter asked.

"Obviously something Blair put him up to. What are we waiting for? We've got to find a way out of here! C'mon, troops!" the drummer exclaimed.

###

Davy had hoped that Angus would be like some henchmen were in the movies; willing to help him escape.

But alas, he had no such luck. Angus paid no attention to him as he retied the ropes and was overall quite indifferent.

So here he was, closer to death than anything else, and he had few of the comforts that most dying men do.

_Maybe, just maybe, the others got my message._

The door opened. Davy heard Blair enter.

"It'll all be over soon, Jones." The heavyset man laughed maniacally. As he moved closer to the bed the English boy noticed that he was holding a syringe in his hand.

"This should become fatal in half an hour. Don't be surprised if it makes you sleepy, Jones. It's my own special blend. I wanted to make sure you'd be out of commission. Any final words?"

_There's no use in trying to fight it anymore, Davy. They probably didn't get your message…_

He shook his head.

"Very well." And with that, Blair stuck the boy's neck with the needle.


	17. Chapter 17

_**A/N: Once again, to my sister, the budding poet. Happy Thanksgiving y'all.**_

"Well, that wasn't too bad." Micky commented as they strolled out of the house. Mike had come up with the brilliant idea of smashing the hinges of the door, and though it had taken almost five minutes to get enough done to be able to get out, the plan had been ultimately successful.

"C'mon, let's go!" the drummer exclaimed, climbing into the drivers' seat of the Monkeemobile.

"1821 Farrington Avenue…" Mike mused, referring to the note. "That's the place that crosses with South Orange Street, right?"  
"Yeah. We decided not to go there this afternoon. Remember?" Peter piped up.

"I do. Step on it, Mick." The Texan ordered.

The rest of the ride was relatively silent. Micky was thankful that he was more sure of the way this time, as opposed to the first time when he really hadn't had _any_ idea where he was going. It had almost cost Davy his life.

He also hoped that Davy would be more receptive of their help this time. The last time around the English boy had displayed more than enough valor. First he'd tried to leave them because he believed he was a burden to the group. Then Davy had risked his life, hoping _they_ would go unharmed. He took the punishment of the light falling on him without any complaint whatsoever and had tried so hard to remain strong when the police doubted his story.

_He's done enough for us. Now we need to do something for him._

###

Blair cackled happily, satisfied with what he had done.

_After this I'll have killed more than half of the Joneses! Then I just have to get his grandfather and that little sixteen year old! And compared with this one they should be easy to get._

The doorbell rang. He sighed. What kind of idiot was trying to ruin his perfect moment of glory? He reluctantly got up to answer it.

But he was not prepared for who was there.

"What are you doing here?" Blair screeched, trying to neatly block the doorway so they couldn't enter.

But the Monkees weren't so easily fooled. Instead of answering his question they scurried into the house between his legs.

###

They hadn't really been surprised when Blair had answered the door, but that didn't prevent them from panicking. The idea of fighting _him _again was enough to make them cringe. But they knew that, for Davy's sake, they had to be strong.

The three of them flew up the stairs, and Blair, having recovered from his shock, padded heavily behind them.

There was really only one door, and it was guarded by a very mean-looking man, so they figured that was where their friend was. Taking down _that_ man seemed even worse than trying to mess with Blair. But they were sandwiched, and Davy _must_ be behind that door.

"Cortland! Get them!" Blair shouted. The heavyset man's cohort darted forward with amazing speed. Micky raised his fist and hit him hard in the jaw. He stumbled backwards, not so much as from the injury as from the shock that such a scrawny guy could throw such a hard punch.

"I always knew I could never depend on you, Cortland!" Blair snapped as he stumbled up the last few steps.

The three Monkees got ready to fight him, push him down the steps if necessary. But the large man held up his hands. "Aren't you more worried about your friend? The drug I gave him should become fatal in about, oh, fifteen minutes." Mike went pale. Micky mouthed the words, "Get in there!" and Mike did just that. He threw open the door.

"Davy?" His friend was tied to a bed, evidently unconscious, some dried blood on his neck. "Davy!" He ran to the bedside, Blair's comment resonating in his mind.

_Maybe he's already a goner. _Then he straightened himself up. _No Mike. Don't think thoughts like that. You have to get him out of here!_

Knowing that time was of the essence, he started to work on the ropes, which were loosely knotted. The sound of fists against skin filled his ears. He knew Micky and Peter must be putting up some kind of fight.

There! The ropes were undone. Blair had obviously been very careless this time, since the Texan could untie them so quickly. He quickly scooped up his younger friend and dashed out of the bedroom door. He saw Micky and Peter outside in the hall, sitting on Blair's back, pinning him down; they had evidently won the fight.

"We've got him covered, Mike. Just get Davy to the hospital!" Micky cried anxiously as the heavier man stirred beneath him.

"Call the police! Tell them you've got Chuck Holly!" Mike called over his shoulder as he trotted down the stairs as quickly as he could.

"Don't worry Tiny. I'll get you there. Just don't die on me!"


	18. Chapter 18

Mike paced the waiting room like a caged tiger.

_Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes._

That had been how long Blair had said it would take for the drug to become fatal.

_Did I get him here in time? Will he survive? If he doesn't I'll never forgive myself. Never._

He was terrified. Mike had come to regard Davy and the others not just as friends but as family. Brothers.

Behind him a door crashed open. He swiveled around.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he almost screamed at Blair.

"I've come to complete what I began, Mishmash."

"Nesmith. If you're going to insult me, do it right. And I'm _not_ gonna let you at Davy."

"Oh?"

"I used to be a pretty good wrestler back in Texas."

"Oh, this is no time to gloat, Nester."

"Nesmith!"

"Perhaps we can make a deal. You could help me to kill the other members of the Jones family. You'd become filthy rich as my assistant. Plus, you know a lot about them from David, so you would actually serve a purpose, unlike some of the other dumbbells I've foolishly hired. Think about all the money you could make."

"Never!"

"I know you're tempted. C'mon. Admit it. You want that cash."

"No!"

"Stubborn, aren't you? No wonder you're such good friends with that little twerp. He doesn't have any better taste."

Mike was ready to explode. It was fine for Blair to insult him. But not Davy. He raised a fist and socked Blair in the nose.

"Yow!" he screeched, stumbling backwards. Then, before Mike knew it, the fight was on. He found himself knocked to the ground, his head hitting the tile hard.

_Blair hasn't got me beat yet._

Painful though it was, Mike managed to pull himself to his feet.

_He won't get to Davy. I can't let him!_

"Still think you can fight, huh?" Blair asked in a haughty tone. "Well, I've got a little something that you haven't." He drew a syringe out of his pocket. Mike went pale.

"That's right. The poison I injected your friend with. And I'll give him another dose if you don't cooperate! As it is he only has six minutes left." The Texan reached for it, only to have Blair pull it away.

The door that Blair had come through flew open.

"Mike!" Micky and Peter cried in unison, relief in their voices.

"Guys, I'm kind of busy right now." Mike replied. Though he was definitely relieved that they'd arrived, he worried that one of them might be injured in the fight.

"I _knew_ you'd be here!" Peter declared triumphantly, pointing to Blair just as Mike drove his knuckles into the older man's jaw. Micky dove for the syringe that he'd dropped.

"Mick!" Mike cried, hoping his friend realized that it was the poison.

"Give me that!" Blair screeched, trying to snatch it from Micky's hand.

"No!"

"You sound just like Nishwash here."

"Nesmith!" the Texan protested as he once again reached for the syringe.

Mike eventually just ducked out because, as much as he _wanted _to help Micky, he was really just getting in the way.

The syringe was surprisingly sturdy, as it held up very well despite all the pulling that was going on. Micky would pull it one way, and then Blair would pull it the other way. What was worse was when they were both pulling at the same time. Mike was more than a little nervous because the needle was on the side Micky was pulling, but he didn't say anything. There was already enough anxiety to go around.

They didn't know exactly when, but at some point Blair came up with the brilliant idea of _pushing _instead of pulling and he ended up very successfully driving the needle into Micky's wrist. The drummer fell backwards, not having expected the needle to pierce him. And Blair, unable to keep his balance, went with him. And when he did two things fell out of his pocket: a fully loaded syringe and a half empty vile of fluid. Peter picked up the latter and read the label on it.

"Anti…dote. What's a dote, Mike?"

"Well, it's…antidote! We've got to get this to Davy! He only has three minutes left!"

"Count me out." Micky muttered, letting his head fall against the floor.

"Give me those!" Blair demanded as he stood up and walked with wobbly but deliberate steps toward them.

"Not on your life!" Peter yelled, clutching the vial and syringe close.

"Pete! Go give Davy the antidote! Get one of the nurses to help you, if you have to, but say it's an emergency! A matter of life or death!" Mike ordered. Peter scurried off to do as he was bid.

"You're still not done with me!" Blair hissed.

"Mick! Did you and Peter call the police?"

"Huh?"

"Did you call the police while you were on Farrington Avenue?"

"Oh…yeah."

"Do they know to come here?"

"I don't know. Pete called 'em." Micky groaned.

"The police are no match for _me_." Blair declared loudly.

"Are we not?" a loud voice boomed.

Everyone swiveled around.

###

"And I still do not understand why you didn't report this man harassing you to the police!" the officer growled.

After Peter (and a very pretty young nurse named Hazel) had given Davy the antidote in the nick of time, they had administered the rest of the vial's contents to Micky. The police had also managed to keep Blair out of commission with some help from a pair of handcuffs and a case of anesthesia that Hazel had helped them induce.

Afterwards, they had all assembled in the waiting room to discuss what had happened. Right now the police were ranting about them apparently not reporting Blair's actions.

"But Officer, we have explained several times…" Mike began before the policeman cut him off by holding up a hand.

"None of my colleagues would do that, I guarantee you. Are you sure you didn't stop by the fire station by accident?"

"Yes sir, we're sure. In any case we wouldn't have made the same mistake twice, now would we?" Micky's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Don't be cheeky with me, young man. Just because you were almost poisoned by that stuff doesn't mean that you shouldn't respect your elders! You're disgraceful!"

"But sir…" Hazel leapt to defend the boys, but the officer silenced her with an icy glare.

"I appreciate you helping with the anesthesia Miss Glosser, but I'm afraid you really didn't have anything to do with this case." She looked a bit hurt, but the officer didn't seem to notice. Peter put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"In any case, boys," he said, glaring at Mike especially, "You were lucky this time. We'll be able to cart this character off to jail. But you won't get that lucky every time. So I really would like to recommend _calling the police_. It can really do a lot of good."

"Thank you for the pointer, sir." Mike said dryly. "But we really have to be getting home. Two of my roommates were almost poisoned. We've had enough excitement for one day."

"Excellent idea, Mr. Newark. And remember: if something this bad ever happens again, _call the police._"

"I'll remember that." Mike replied, not even bothering to correct the officer about his name. "C'mon, fellows. I'm not letting any of you out of my sight. Especially you two." He looked directly at Davy and Micky, who laughed weakly.

They walked out of the hospital, a little tired but pretty glad that the excitement was over.

"Man, I never want to go through _that_ again." Micky exclaimed. The others all nodded knowingly.

"The police _still_ don't believe us." Peter sighed.

"And who knows if Blair will break out of jail?" Mike groaned.

"I'm sorry, guys. This is all my fault. But you really came through in the end. I couldn't have asked for a better group of friends. Can you ever forgive me?" Davy pleaded, widening his chocolate brown eyes.

Mike got a devilish look in his own brown eyes. "Maybe. But you have to promise me-us-one thing." The group came to a halt on the sidewalk in front of the Monkeemobile.

"Anything!"

"You have to promise that you'll never run away from us again. Never. You made a mistake. And it wasn't exactly a little mistake. But we need you. We care what happens to you."

The guitarist's words echoed over and over in the silence.

"Why don't we all promise that?" Micky volunteered, holding out his hand palm down. Peter immediately put his hand on top of Micky's and Mike put his on top of Peter's. Davy hesitated. Mike spoke again.

"You worried us, Tiny. There were so many times that we could have lost you in the last few days, just because of that mistake that made you think we didn't want you. Don't do that to us again." Davy still held back for another moment, but then put his hand at the top of the stack.

"Promise."

Satisfied that he would keep his promise, they climbed into the Monkeemobile.

"Hey guys, want to sing something?" Micky offered as he turned the key in the ignition.

"Sure! Why not?" Davy exclaimed.

"I know the perfect song. The content may not all apply, but the title is right on." Mike commented.

"What's that?" Micky asked.

The Texan grinned. "'Happy Together'."

**THE END**

_**A/N: I know, I know, I should have killed Blair. But I have plans that require he be alive. Though at some point, he probably will die. **_

_**Acknowledgments**_

_**I'd like to thank all of you for reading and your reviews. I'd especially like to thank NatashaPavlova and MonkeeMidgie for mentoring me throughout the making of this story.**_

_**Part of what Mike said to Davy was based on something Plush Chrome said to me. So thank you, Plush Chrome. I hope you don't mind.**_


End file.
